


Sherlock Is Gay

by williamastankova



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (yes I know), Brotherly Love, Case Fic, Christmastime, Finally, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Sherlock feels the need to profess his feelings, Swingers, and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Throughout the years, Sherlock has managed to keep his romantic interests on virtual lock-down from every person he's ever met (except from Mycroft, perhaps, but he doesn't really count as a person). Turns out, this might not have been the cleverest idea, he's about to learn the hard way...





	Sherlock Is Gay

Sherlock was gay, not stupid.

He knew that Molly was interested. He saw how she looked at him, and realised soon enough after when she made an effort to do something to impress him. After the Christmas incident, he made a more conscious effort to take seconds to think about how he spoke to her, for he truly did value her as a good friend, and didn't ever want to see her hurt, as he had on that fateful day. Of course, as mentioned already, Sherlock was gay, and there was no changing that. This being true, however, he had eyes, and so he saw Molly. He saw that she was beautiful - perhaps not classically chiselled, pristine and tall, but she had curves and a pretty smile, and she always looked and smelt nice. She always laughed at people's jokes, even when they weren't that funny (which, in Sherlock's advanced mind, was seldom ever not the case). She talked to new people, and somehow made herself seem confident to ensure newcomers felt comfortable. She was truly lovely, and she deserved a good person. That person was not Sherlock.

Irene Adler was another case. Again, Sherlock hadn't been attracted to her - romantically or sexually - but he did enjoy her mind. In a way, she reminded him of his own mother: a talented woman, who managed to retain every ounce of her femeninity alongside her outstanding brain, and always demanded respect when she felt it lacking. The Woman had long legs, perfect porcelain skin, and was always dressed to the nines. She certainly knew her way around a man's brain - hell, if Sherlock wasn't how he was, she might have had him wrapped around her little, painted finger. Unlike Molly, she was the classic example of beauty. Most people enjoyed how she looked, male and female, which aided her cause. Her mind was infallible, and her looks were exceptional, too. She was, as they said, "the full package", but not for Sherlock.

These women, never could capture Sherlock's romantic attention. For obvious reasons, and for one (hopefully) less obvious one. You see, Sherlock had a secret. He had managed to keep it for a long time, and had to 'toot his own horn' and appreciate how well he had kept it. When he was frustrated, he had a bad habit of saying things he shouldn't, but through careful self-measurement and isolating himself when these moods struck, he had his mouth sealed. Well, for this long, anyway, because Sherlock was in one of those moods again, and this time there was no hope of escaping. They had been on a case, exploring an area, when something happened, and via a sort of domino effect, one thing led to another, and now he sat in the back of a cab with John at his side (when he had refused to pay extra for another, separate cab, and Sherlock had already clambered in, which was admittedly a mistake on his part). Sherlock rested his elbow on the protruding armrest and looked intently at anything out of the window. Only ten minutes, only ten.

"Sherlock, I really don't know what's wrong with you." John's stupid voice said through his teeth, quiet enough so only his victim would hear him, leaving the innocent driver out of the bubbling argument.

Sherlock shoved the knuckle of his index finger into his mouth to shut himself up, though in his mind he replied in various ways, none of them nice enough to voice. Much to his dismay, this kind action of his didn't stop John's lips from moving, nor did it mute the words that fell from his tongue.  
"I mean, seriously," his voice still was a whisper, "I don't even know what happened. Could you please explain that much to me?"

Sherlock looked at where they were, then remained quiet. A moment later, not even a millisecond after the cab had stopped, he jumped out, thanking the driver in a breath, and all but ran to the door of 221B. He simply had to get away from John, and now, while he paid their fare, was the opportune moment. He opened the door and darted up the stairs, quicker yet when he saw Mrs Hudson's door open and could practically hear her calling to him already, despite her having not seen him. He flung open the door to the flat, ignoring the calls of 'Sherlock!' in John's voice that had begun. He threw off his coat, leaving it on the couch, and stopped only for a brief moment to collect himself. He soon settled on going to his room and barricading himself in, and so he strode purposefully across the small living room and into his bedroom. Once inside, he span around, accidentally catching John's searching eye as he went to close his door. This was not a smart move.

"Sherlock!" John hammered on the door, a little dramatically, though it managed to hold Sherlock's attention alright. Sherlock kept his hand on the lock, keeping it from turning for a moment or two, then he let go, propping something against it, and sitting on his bed instead. Yes, this was much more theraputic. Well, it would have been, had John's voice not still been in his head, and outside his door.  
"Open the bloody door, Sherlock!" John called, and Sherlock watched the knob turning in vain, "Stop being such a bloody child."

Something about this rubbed Sherlock even more the wrong way, causing him to yell back, "Oh, shut up, John!"  
"He talks!" John replied, sardonically, "Anything else to say, while you're at it? For example, it'd be really helpful if you tell me just why you've locked yourself in your room like a bloody adolescent. Just an idea!"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and lay down on his bed, not caring to respond. Turns out, he didn't really need to anyway; John knew exactly what had happened. Almost.  
"Sherlock, for God's sake," John stopped turning the handle, but still spoke louder than usual, and Sherlock could hear the incredulous tone thick in his voice, "I was just speaking to Anderson, gathering relevant information which is our job, and you flipped out and left the crime scene!"  
"Yes."  
"'Yes'? Does that make sense in that brain of yours?" John retorted, "For the rest of us, that's pretty insane, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. It wasn't humerous, but it was funny. John really was clueless. He had no idea of Anderson's intentions - not even of his sexuality. It was crystal clear that Anderson was bisexual. His fling with Donovan had ended, and he was seeking a new piece, though this time his sights were set on a male. Namely, John Hamish Watson. He really was a goldfish sometimes.

"Well, Sherlock, whenever you decide your little tantrum is over, I'll be out here. An explanation would be greatly appreciated." John called, voice getting increasingly quieter as he moved further and further away from the door.  
Sherlock allowed himself to sigh with relief, and then roll over and attempt to sleep.

He didn't.

\----

Sherlock had come out of the room, pretending to need to eat. He had made some excuse about hating Anderson when John's stream of questions started, and feeling something or other about their friendly conversing, and made absolutely sure to avoid giving any indication that he liked John in any way that wasn't platonic. Sure, John made some protest, but then Sherlock quickly deflected, as he had been so used to doing for so many years now. It was easy enough, and eventually John forgave his outburst, and they finished the case at home - decidedly without Philip Anderson, though John needn't know that that was Sherlock's active intention.

Time passed, and they got along - and didn't get along - as usual. Cases were solved, and countless days were had. One day, however, Sherlock found himself even more bored than usual, with no murderers to catch or scandals to crack, and he lounged around the flat, complaining at least every twenty seconds that he was bored, and that John ought to find him something to do. John sighed every time he did, and tried to ignore his friend to the best of his abilities. Once this failed, however, John finally put the paper down, and exited the flat. In his state, Sherlock almost didn't notice he left, but he did hear some stairs creak, and only when John returned were his suspicions confirmed.  
"Oh, you're back." Sherlock looked up at his friend as he crossed the floor, making his way to his laptop with something in his hand, that Sherlock couldn't quite make out. Regardless, he was bored, and so said, "I'm bored."

"Yes, I figured." John replied, not looking up from the monitor, as he opened the disc slot and put something in, and then patiently waited for it to start up. Once it did, he moved over to Sherlock, saying, "which is why I'm putting this on."  
Sherlock eyed the screen. He had to squint to read what was on it, but when he did he saw the words "Mamma Mia!", and he couldn't hold back a scoff once more. "Really, John?"  
"Really." John finally looked at him, smiled, and then did a few clicks on the laptop and nestled it on Sherlock's lap, "I think it's about time you learned some key societal things, and we're starting here. While you have time, and you're bored, as you keep saying."

Sherlock cursed his own word choice. Still, he added, "We're starting at an ancient movie with actors I don't know and a storyline I undoubtedly won't care about? I can hardly see how this will help me in any future endeavours, John."  
"We'll see." John smirked proudly to himself, "I'm going to do a few things, if you don't mind, in the mean time."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't protest. After all, it was something to pass the time without a case, and John had gone to all of the trouble of retreiving the DVD, so there was really no use in throwing a hissy fit. He buckled himself down for the worst experience of his life as he hit play, and groaned when the first song played.  
  
\----

Sherlock was hooked. No, it was true that 'Mamma Mia!' wasn't exactly his usual cup of tea; he preferred more structured, factual things. Even as a child, the furthest he strayed from the path of scientific matters was when he dreamed of becoming a pirate, but now he had seemed to change. Every scene, every character development - even the songs, for crying out loud - had Sherlock on the edge of his seat. If John hadn't been sat in the room with him, he would have likely got up the lyrics and belted them out (which was incredibly, inconsiderably out of character for Sherlock). Of course, as things were, he had resigned to tapping his fingers on the laptop to the catchy beat, and he had also made a mental note to return to the songs later and, with earphones, he would learn the words. He was many things, and a liar - to himself - was not up there.

The film had just finished. As promised, Sherlock retrieved his earphones without alerting John, who was still sat at the table working intently at something Sherlock could only conclude was a crossword or sudoku of some description. It wasn't really relevant, because all that was on his mind was opening the soundtrack and a tab on Google for the words. YouTube was a little slow, but eventually let him search, and click on a playlist full of the songs. The first on the list was 'Lay All Your Love On Me', so Sherlock typed the title into the search bar of the open tab, followed with "lyrics" (logically). Then, he sat in silence, struggling not to burst into song there and then (which he had never encountered before; this was a beyond strange situation).

However, reading through the lyrics, he absent-mindedly cast a look over at John, but quickly drew his eyes back to the screen, claiming to himself that he simply didn't want to lose where he was up to in the song. He spent the remainder of the night like this, until John finally looked over at the clock, and told Sherlock it was time for bed. Sherlock sighed, prepared to protest and tell John that he wasn't a child, but when he moved his bones ached, and his eyes felt heavy. Against his original plan, he resigned, and rose, wrapped in a blanket he didn't remember putting on, and shuffled his way into his room with the laptop, murmuring a quick "goodnight" to John on the way.

Once in his room, Sherlock listened to a few more songs, namely the title song, and then allowed himself to fall into an intoxicating sleep.  
  
\---  
  
Sherlock was with John. They sat together, on the couch of 221B, and everything was seemingly usual. Sherlock turned to look at John, because though nothing looked out of place, he really could not remember how he got there. He could have sworn it had only been maybe two minutes when he clicked off of the laptop, shut it down, and lay down in bed. He did a quick scan of the room, then came to rest once again on John. Nothing was off about John, at least not that Sherlock could see, for every movement he made as he bustled around, slipping off his shoes, tidying his immediate vicinity. Everything was completely and utterly normal, which only further perplexed Sherlock. Was he going mad? It was about time.

He trusted John. He wouldn't lie to him. If Sherlock asked him how they got there, he would give him an honest answer, albeit accompanied with a strange look and maybe an interrogation about his activities leading up to the inquiry and a real doctor's once-over, but that Sherlock was used to, for Mycroft had done the same since Sherlock had been born, and especially since the... incident, a few years ago. Honestly, it had been so long since he had met John, he was now also not surprised when they were compared to an old married couple, what with how they bickered. It was rather apt, Sherlock thought, and so he opened his mouth to voice his concern, but before he could a familar song blasted from nowhere Sherlock could detect.

"I wasn't jealous before we met,  
now every man that I see is a potential threat.  
And I'm possessive  
It isn't nice.

You've heard me saying that smoking was my only vice,  
but now it isn't true.  
Now everything is new.  
And all I've learned, has overturned;  
I beg of you..."

Sherlock closed his mouth at this point, realising what song it was. He looked around frantically for the source of the music, to no avail. This clued Sherlock in to what was really going on, but before he could do anything about it, the words went on, but now John looked him straight in the eyes, as if to tell him to listen even closer:

"Don't go wasting your emotions;  
lay all your love on me.

It was like shooting a sitting duck:  
a little small talk, a smile, and baby I was stuck."

Sherlock's vision was then greeted with a hyper-realistic clip of him and John, sitting at their table in Angelo's, except it was now in their living room. They were deep in a conversation Sherlock knew already, and John cracked a smile, and then Sherlock looked at himself, which was admittedly strange, and then back at John. Here, he without a doubt saw something shift behind John's eyes, though he could not (would not) place exactly what had happened.

Sherlock recalled this memory as clearly as a polished crystal. He remembered what they said, and he remembered them laughing over it. Then, he remembered holding John's eye for a beat, before Angelo interrupted with their (John's) food, and so Sherlock looked away once more. He remembered thinking how this was undoubtedly for the best, for 'a watched man never eats', or whatever that silly saying was: it was only apt once in a blue moon, after all, and never in regards to a case. This time, however, as he looked on at them, there was no Angelo. Their eyes held each other, and Sherlock saw his own arms nearly buckle underneath the weight of him leaning on them, nearly taking the entire table down, too. With no interruption, he saw what would have happened:

John slowly inched forward, bringing himself to mirror Sherlock with his elbows resting on the table, so that their faces were mere inches apart. Fake-Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed a little - not in disagreeance of this action, but rather in wonder of why he did such a thing. Soon enough, though, both Fake-Sherlock and Real-Sherlock understood exactly why, as John's eyes settled on his lips, where they remained glued as he drew even nearer. With centimeters between their mouths, Fake-Sherlock thought no harm could come from processing John's face - every single feature, from his only-slightly-too-long hair, to his strong, masculine jawline. He then took reference from John, resting his eyes on John's lips, and Real-Sherlock could almost feel the tingling excitement in the air, as though he were the one at the table instead of his doppelganger, and then he could almost taste John when Fake-Sherlock did, except he didn't. Of course he didn't, because it wasn't real. That was it; the illusion was over.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" Real-Sherlock called out to nobody in particular, not even earning a tilted head from the others present, "This is a dream. I know this is a dream. Just... a dream. I want to wake up now."

And with that, he awoke, sitting upright in his bed, breathing deeply. He took the liberty of looking around his room and appreciating how solid, how real, things were. He brought a hand to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it as he took in and let out ait. He even reached out to touch his bedsheets, more pleased to feel them under his fingertips than ever before. Still, he couldn't quite escape a feeling of... something. Something that kept reminding him of the words, the song choice of his mind. Of course, as a scientist, Sherlock took an interest in dreams, and firmly thought they could expose a person's innermost desires, but it wasn't a secret that he wanted John. In fact, he was the only person who knew he did, except for maybe Mycroft who made off comments here and there, but always played dumb when asked about it promptly after. It didn't make sense: why would Sherlock's subconscious want to tell him he liked John? He knew that already, and his developed brain knew he knew that already. Was it something else? Maybe it was telling him that John reciprocated his feelings, except that made even less sense. That couldn't be the case, because it wasn't John's dream, and he didn't know if John felt like that towards him. Maybe... maybe it was telling him it was time. Time to act. Time to tell John that...

Buzz.  
A text alert.

Lifting his phone from the table where he had left it, he looked at his new message, squinting as he struggled to turn the brightness down, and trying to avoid looking at the time. It didn't really matter anyway, was his conclusion. And even if it did, John had just texted him, so every coherent thought left his brain.

For a silly reason, Sherlock broke out into a cold sweat, and, for a brief moment, he panicked. Did John know? Could he secretly read minds? No, and no, but still. Sherlock ridded himself of the ridiculous thoughts, and opened his phone, clicking on the new message:

/Can't sleep./

Sherlock's fingers nimbly replied, "What's wrong? SH."

Buzz.  
/Woke up for some reason. Feeling too warm. Can't go back to sleep. Did I wake you?/

"No, you didn't wake me. Too warm? It's November, John. SH."

/I know. Weird. Anyway, I might have a cup of tea. Want one?/

"No, thank you." Sherlock sent bluntly, soon after going into autopilot and following it with, "Will you be okay?"

/I should think so. Given you haven't done any experiement using the milk and put it back in the fridge, my main issue will be boredom. Thanks for asking./

A moment, and then:  
/Will you?/

Sherlock let himself scoff, and then sarkily reply, "I should think so."

The chat went quiet, and Sherlock had an idea. Quickly, before John could fall back asleep for any reason, he wrote, "Do you want to watch Mamma Mia? SH."

He felt juvenile as he sent it. He needn't, because he appreciated the film and knew John had watched it before too, and had even then gone on to recommend (force) Sherlock to watch it, much to his then-dismay but now-delight. Still, Sherlock couldn't help himself from staring anxiously at the sent text. One minute passed, then a second. His insecurities grew, and he reached out to shut his phone screen off. It was fine; John didn't want to sit with Sherlock, and it was fine. Come to think of it, John might have simply not wanted to rewatch the film, which was also fine. Even more so, in fact. He slumped back down in bed, defeated, and turned to his side, looking at the door, expecting nothing. With this, imagine his surprise, hearing a knocking start at his door, and then John's voice breaking through the cracks.  
"Sherlock?" John's tentative voice came, "You still up?"  
Sherlock nodded, then remembered John couldn't see him, so cleared his throat, sat up, and said, "I- yes, I'm still up."

The door opened, and John slipped through, carrying two teas carefully in his hands. He gently closed the door behind him using his foot, then finally looked at Sherlock. He smiled warmly, made to hand him his tea, which Sherlock took gratefully, a 'thank you' falling from his lips. He sipped it, and it tasted exactly how he liked it. He had to conceal a beaming smile from John, who he figured would think he was a little bit barmy if he let it loose. It wouldn't have been decent.

He moved over, letting John sit beside him on the bed, and put his tea to the side, then used his newly free hands to pry open his - no, John's, now he looked at it with less-blurry vision - laptop, where he put on the film (which was still open on the hotbar, but John didn't comment on that). He sat it between them, and they began watching it. Sherlock was, for the first few opening moments, a little distant, lost inside his brain. It wasn't unlike the states he went into when he entered his mind palace, though now he only pondered upon his dream, and then concluded he had a lot to mull over. Not now, though. Now, he was going to rewatch Mamma Mia!, and he was going to love it even more than the last time.

Slipping down further under his covers, Sherlock nestled with his tea, sipping it and furling his toes, never having felt more comfortable in his entire life.  
  
\----  
  
Nearly exactly a month later, their decorations were up. Sherlock had, naturally, topped the Christmas tree, and John did just about everything else. It was perfect: Sherlock was unfazed by the holiday season and its traditions, and John loved decorating for Christmas. With this, 221B had colourful lights tastefully adorning every inch of it, and John had invited the usual couple of close friends over for the evening, to drink and chat and such. Sherlock busted out his violin after a little cohersion by Mrs Hudson, and after tuning he played a few of the festive songs he learned during his childhood. She clapped, along with Molly, Lestrade, and John - the only other people in attendance. Earnestly, even though he wasn't the most extroverted person ever, he had to admit to himself it was nice to occasionally gather with their friends, even if he did spend most of the time sulking, hunched over his laptop. The overall aura was something he found himself enjoying, even if he'd never say it out loud.

Molly brought some presents for everybody, and this time Sherlock decidedly did not say any of his deductions out loud this time, having learned his lesson twelve hundred times over the last time, and thanked her kindly for her thoughtful gift of stationary and lab equipment. It wasn't entirely faked, as he really was needing some new pens, and he thoroughly enjoyed having his own utensils for experiements, as opposed to sharing them with God knows how many other people. John handed out the small things he had bought for everybody (and attached both of their names to), and they both received thanks for their purchases. Overall, the vibe was good, and the liquour seemed better. Within two hours, Lestrade was rocking on his feet, and chatting with Molly. Sherlock, although unable to hear them from across the room, watched them talking, and saw her laugh and then slip on her coat, saying something to John, then heading downstairs. He narrowed his eyes, but didn't go after her.

A few moments later, she returned, messing with something in her coat. Sherlock kept his eyes on her for a moment, though soon lost interest when she removed her coat and put it once more on the coat rack, then return to Lestrade's side. Sherlock focused once more on his laptop, unfazed by what had just happened - which, at that particular moment, seemed like nothing at all. He typed some more up, after realising he hadn't posted to his website in over two weeks, but suddenly stopped when he heard Lestrade cough and begin an announcement. This was unusual.

"First of all, I would like to wish you a happy holidays," he began, sounding almost sober, despite his demeanour, "and now I would like to make a proposal. Molly Hooper and I have decided to make a little game: in all of the archways of this flat, we've planted some mistletoe. The rule is that, if you happen to run into somebody under one of these areas, you have to plant one on them. No cheaters allowed!" He raised his beer to emphasise the point, and everybody replied in a chatty way, all excited in some description.

Sherlock sighed and shut the laptop over, whispering under his breath, "oh, yes, a very original idea." before leaning back in the chair, facing the multicoloured windowsill. He checked the time, seeing it was only nine-thirty, and then pulled his sleeve back over it, concealing it. As much as his subconscious was enjoying the atmosphere, on the surface he was rather bored. He made a plan in his head: he would quickly nip to the bathroom, then he would grab a drink (preferably alcoholic, as he knew the primary benefit was the carelessness it brought once it penetrated the bloodstream. Yes, this sounded good, and so he quietly excused himself, and slipped from the living room, down the hallway into the lavatory. He relieved himself, then washed his hands, mussing with his hair a little once he caught his own eye in the mirror and saw it had been slightly overpowered by gravity. Once he felt it looked as it most always did, he opened the door and made his way slowly towards the kitchen.

On his way, however, he came across Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and came to notice that sure enough, hanging above their heads, was a small green plant, budding with white snowballs. Mistletoe. So it was true: they really had boobytrapped every doorway. He quickly scanned the area he could see, spanning from the bathroom he had just emerged from to the two doors into the living room and the one into the kitchen, where the two victims stood; each and every doorway had a piece of (clearly) store-bought mistletoe hanging, tied to a piece of brown thread and attached to the wooden doorframe. Sherlock couldn't help but sigh: this was going to be a long night.

Once they realised what had happened, they looked at each other and Mrs Hudson chuckled, causing Lestrade to crack a small smile. Wordlessly, he leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. He smiled kindly down at her, and she feigned a hot flush with a fanning of her hand. He laughed, and they went back into the living room, chatting all the while. Sherlock paid no mind to listen to their actual words; what a terrible waste of time and energy. He rolled his eyes to himself, then wandered into the kitchen, heading for the alcohol and pouring himself a glass of the first container he saw, then shuffling around and looking at what else it had to offer. Not very much, it turned out, and so he pulled out his phone and began scrolling through it, opening the well-wishing of the season from a couple of people, including Mike Stamford and even Mycroft, though Sherlock knew almost instantly it was unlikely to have been his brother who typed out the message and sent it. He ignored them all.

Bored. Bored, he picked up the glass he had set down whilst checking his messages, and began to walk back into the hallway, where he ran into Molly who appeared to be making her way into the bathroom. As soon as they, in sync, looked up and saw the mistletoe, she flushed bright red and began uttering out quick, unfinished 'sentences', such as "Oh, Sherlock, I...", "You don't...", "I didn't...", and so on and so forth. Exasperated, and subtly hoping for her to stop spluttering, he bent down and placed a chaste kiss to her lips, making her jump back with an, "oh!". He murmured a quick, 'merry Christmas, Molly,' as he went past her, ignoring when he heard her turn around to watch him leave, and he tried not to imagine her touching her lips like a teenager who had just had their first kiss, though he knew for a fact that was what happened behind him. No, rather, he went across the wooden floor, and took his seat once more, though this time he forced himself to turn it around so he would be able to 'socialise'. He suppressed a groan.  
  
\----

About an hour later, he had begun to feel a slight buzz, which helped keep him pleasant enough to talk too. Mrs Hudson spoke to him - borderline at him - for an age, and even then he kept his composure. Really, he felt better than he had for a while, except now he had to use the bathroom again. Once more, he repeated his sequence of excusing himself, then walking into the hallway, and then into the bathroom. He didn't, admittedly, do a scan of the room, so he couldn't account for who was present and who wasn't. Ergo, when he arrived at the bathroom door and went to turn the knob and push it open, he was a little surprised to find it locked. Filling in the blanks himself, he soon came to the assumption that it was occupied by one of the partygoers, but before he could retreat into the living room and wait for them to come out so he could go in, the door unlocked and out came John, brushing himself down with newly cleaned and dryed hands. Sherlock was lost for words... nearly.

"John!"  
John looked up at him, stepping back only slightly when he realised just how close they were. "Sherlock, hey. You alright?"  
"Hm?" Sherlock suddenly broke out into a nervous sweat, clearly realising something John hadn't quite done, "Yes, fine. I'm fine, just alright thank you. Yourself?"  
"Well, I-" Sherlock didn't let him finish, realising what a predicament they were in. His intoxicated brain could manage to recall how mistletoe adorned every doorway - including that of the bathroom - but seemingly couldn't resist stating the obvious.  
"We're standing under mistletoe." He grimaced as he finished his sentence, when his mind finally caught up with his tongue. Why could he not just avoid it? It would have been beyond easy to pretend he hadn't noticed, and to let them both go on their merry ways, but no. His masochist mouth had opened, and his traitor tongue had spilled the words. Perhaps it was his subconsious desperate to further his crush, wanting to kiss John but knowing it would never happen, so seizing the opportunity to do so while it was a game. Either way, it was said and done, so he had to await John's response.

The smaller man looked up, and registered that his friend was right. He laughed, and Sherlock couldn't tell if it was from genuine pleasure or it was a defence mechanism from the awkward situation. Regardless, he said, "yes, we are."  
Sherlock shook his head and looked to the floor, "we can just pretend we did it, if you would like. Nobody will be any wiser."  
John feigned shock, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you lying, cheating sod! What sort of man are you?"  
"I-" Sherlock brought his eyes to John's, having to see for himself the emotion displayed there. As anticipated, he saw jest, but also sincerity. The former was meant for his deliverance, but the sincerity was for his words. Was this really going to happen. "Alright then."

So, Sherlock edged closer to John, all the while holding eye contact. He moved terribly slowly, giving John enough time to protest if he had misread anything, but hearing no complaints. He dipped his head, low enough so that their mouths were on near enough the same level, and then he planted one on John. Not a wet, tongue-infested, mouth-molesting kiss, just a simple one, with his hand resting on his back, which told him when John fell back against the door. In total, the kiss probably lasted around five to ten seconds, but to Sherlock it seemed much, much longer. After years of pent-up longing for his best friend, this was finally it. It didn't matter why it was happening, all that mattered was that it was happening, and Sherlock almost lost all feeling to his body. His fingertips tingled, and his heart ached. It wanted the liberty to do this all the time, but it nearly collapsed when his brain told it that would never, ever happen. This was simply a duty of sorts, and this only took place because it had to - because John was an honest man, who played by the rules and went about life like he was still in the war. This was simply a requirement, and with this Sherlock pulled back.

He didn't look at John. He couldn't. If he looked at him, he feared he might combust.  
"Well," John said, voice quite quiet, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."  
Sherlock waited just a beat, then whispered, "Merry Christmas, John."

He pushed past John and went into the bathroom, where he closed the door, locked it, and sat on the edge of the bath, containing his composure, for if he didn't, he might have burst into tears there and then, and that just wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He was far too old for such things, and his time - alongside his brain and energy - should be used for far greater things, to further humanity in some way, shape or form. Still, he sat there for an abnormal amount of time, until he felt capable of regaining the pieces of himself, then he continued on as intended. After all, what else was there to do?  
  
\----

"How many times do I have to say it, Mycroft?" Sherlock paced around the flat, "No, no, no, and no."  
Mycroft sat in John's armchair, moving his body to keep his eyes fixed on his brother, "Brother mine, it's only for a case. I'm not actually asking you to get married. Plus, this is of national importance."  
Sherlock stopped, and glared at him, "Mycroft, don't pretend you don't know."  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, then fidgeted with his umbrella as he spoke, "Don't worry, I notice everything, Sherlock. You won't be being intimate with the woman, I just need you to pretend to be married. Do whatever it is couples do."  
"Like kissing."  
"Yes."  
Sherlock scoffed, and continued, "Oh, I'm sure this will run smoothly, given how deeply enthralled by my 'wife' I'll seem." Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, "It'll look like she's kissing a dead fish."  
"Perhaps it's an unhappy marriage?" Mycroft joked - actually joked - before he went on, "Fine, then. You'd rather have a fake husband? More true to life, I suppose. I have a few men who would be willing to act as your significant other. You'll have to make yourself look more interested in her, but I'm sure that's not beyond the realm of possibility. Plus, you never know," Mycroft gave him /the look/, that he knew irked him, "maybe you'll even find something of worth in him."

Sherlock took a moment, then shook his head. "It won't work, still. I won't know a thing about him. It'll look staged, on both sides."  
"Don't fancy yourself a good actor, then?"  
"The best," Sherlock retorted, "I just don't trust the capabilities of your emloyees." He smiled annoyingly.  
"Fine," Mycroft said, and in the minute it took him to formulate another alternative, Sherlock almost thought he had gotten out of it. "What about John?"  
"What about John?"  
"He could pretend to be your husband. As you say, a woman won't do, given who you are, and a random man plucked from my team will be just about as convincing." Mycroft explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Sherlock's smug smirk fell. "You and John have always been rather... close." There it was, again. The look. Sherlock began messing with the tie of his silk, eggshell nightgown. "It's foolproof."

Mycroft made to stand, and then walk out the door without any further word. Sherlock would not let this be the case.  
"Where are you going?" He asked, ashamed of the desperation in his voice, but knowing he had to stop him.  
Mycroft turned around, using his appendage of an umbrella to rest on as he did so, "I have important matters to attend to, and reservations to make."  
"No."  
"'No?'" Mycroft repeated incredulously, "I don't quite think that's up to you, Sherlock."  
"I mean no, I'm not asking John."  
"Yes you are."  
"No, I'm not."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with a pursed mouth that contradicted his jest-filled eyes. A standstill? Unlikely.  
"I'll see you there, Sherlock." He declared, turning around once more, saying one final sentence as he shut the door, "I am not asking; do not disappoint me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once the door to the flat was closed, and flopped back into his armchair.  
Mycroft was utterly detestable.  
  
\----

Sherlock had asked John in the most professional way he could. In truth, Sherlock didn't think it went so badly, except for a minor few times he forgot what words were, and spent about an hour trying to ask the same question (which really just boiled down to, "Mycroft has given me a case, will you pretend to be my husband to solve it?", but Sherlock managed to overcomplicate things). Now, though, it was go time, and they arrived in a cab outside of the restaurant. After paying the cabbie the fare money, they both exited the cab and straightened their suits, making sure to remove any unwanted pieces of fluff. Sherlock also adjusted his wedding ring - a plain gold band, and one he wouldn't choose for himself, though he knew that wasn't correct ettiquite anyway - and ruffled his hair, then tentatively looked at John, awaiting his initiation of any Public Displays of Affection. Smiling softly up at him, he reached out and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's, and then made to walk into the building.

Sherlock felt a new-found confidence as he strode up to the woman at the desk, and told her the name and awaited an usher of some description to bring them to their seat. Once sat down, Sherlock fumbled for a menu, only a little less gracefully than usual, but found one and began scanning the meals, before whispering to John that he was going to look for the woman. He knew she favoured married men, but Sherlock also knew that he had to do something to prove he was attracted to women, so she would come onto him. Excusing himself, he stood, lay a peck on John's cheek, and spoke to him once again - louder this time, saying that he was going to the bathroom, but that John could order for him. He messed with his cufflinks, but then cast an analytical look around the room:

Redhead, approximately 37, on the table to their left. No, because despite hairdye could prove to be a tricky thing, Sherlock had near enough studied an image of her, and their bone structures didn't overlap once. Across the room, another woman, black hair this time. Sherlock tried to look at her face in detail, though he saw no resemblance there, either. Besides, that woman was a smoker, which Sherlock saw in the lines around her mouth and the slight tint of her teeth when she smiled, clearly amused by something her companion had just said. Sherlock was nearing the bathroom, and he still hadn't even located the woman. But then, just as it seemed impossible, a woman crossed directly into his line, making a beeline for the same unisex bathroom herself, and it was undoubtedly her. Her figure was petite - short, and her frame compact - but she had long legs and was busty, which was visible via the heart-cut neckline of her dress. Her hair was a honeycomb blonde, and though he couldn't see her eyes, he expected to see the dark brown, bordeline black colour he had in the photographs. After all, it was much harder to make brown eyes blue than it was to make blue eyes brown, because contacts had a funny way about them that always made dark eyes seem demonic when light filters were applied. Yes, Sherlock must have been right, because a woman such as herself would want to draw as little attention to herself as possible, so she would avoid having detectable eyes.

He followed her into the bathroom, noticing she was texting somebody, and stole a glance at her face before he shut over the cubicle door. He sent John a quick message:

"Located her. Busty blonde, will be coming out of the bathroom soon. Be ready; I'll show interest in her. SH"

/Okay. Be careful./

Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and exited the loo, flushing beforehand so as to not arise any suspicion. He went to the sinks, and kept an eye out in the mirror to look for her. Sure enough, about twenty seconds after him, the woman - Cassandra Leighton - came out from the stall, and headed to the mirrors, where she fussed with her hair, deciding she had to take it down and restart all over again. This was his chance.

Sherlock looked purposefully at her chest for a short while, then met her eye in the mirror. "Well, hello." He tried to make his voice smoother than butter, and really could not tell how he was doing.  
"Hello." She replied shortly, holding his eye for a minute, registering his features, then looking back at herself, fixing her hair. She slid in a pin to smooth out a bump in her hair, and he felt at a loss. Still, this was a case, and he needed to solve it.  
"Do you come here often?"  
She laughed - actually laughed at him - before saying, "Yes, more than you'd believe." She removed her purse from her armpit, where she had put it to keep it safe as she focused her attention in the mirror. "Enjoy your night."  
"You too."

Sherlock kicked himself when she left. He hadn't gotten anywhere, and to add to his dismay there was a man looking at him in the mirror, a both bemused and pitiful look on his face. Sherlock sulked and stalked to the door, regaining his stature only when he opened it and made to leave. First, he looked to John, who he found talking to a waiter, presumably ordering their food. Then, satisfied with his "husband" being occupied, he looked around for Cassie, as she was known, and found her easily enough, sitting down at a table with about three other people - two men, and a woman. All of them looked at her with the same look - a sort of hunger Sherlock wasn't used to, but had seen on films and TV shows when actors were particularly good, or were actually interested on their on-screen partners. He mentally noted where she was sat - not far from the bathrooms, a fair enough distance away from them that they wouldn't have to talk in hushed tones. He breathed, and set off towards John.

As he arrived, he placed a hand firmly on John's shoulder, massaging it briefly, and took his seat across from him.  
"Well?" John asked, voice cautious but inquisitive all the same.  
"Well I've found her," he answered, nodding over to the table, "and her band of lovers."

John looked subtly over, then nodded, and went on as normal, "I ordered you a steak. Got a regular; didn't want anything too extreme for you."  
Sherlock smiled at him, "Perfect, thanks."  
"Oh, and the house wine should be here soon. A glass each, just to ease the mood."  
"Wonderful."  
  
\----

The night seeped on. They ordered a variety of drinks, only the first of which was wine, which both of them found they detested. It tasted how a farm smells, so they left both of their glasses to the side, and ordered Cokes instead; it was always a safe bet. They laughed about how fantastic it tasted, when compared to the abhorrent poision John had ordered them first, and Sherlock poked fun of his 'terrible taste in liquour'. The food finally came and was, as Mycroft promised them it would be, fantastic, and they almost forgot they were on a case. Every so often, however, Sherlock would pretend to be looking for somebody, and he would glance over at Cassie, who he would frequently find engaged in conversation with the people at her table (as everyone thought they might be). Once, however, the last time he looked, he caught her eye accidentally, while she looked over at their table, and his knee, as a reflex, kicked out against his will, sending the glasses of wine spilling over, one to him and the other to John's side.

"Oh, John, I'm so-" Sherlock turned back to his friend, who had pushed his chair out and was brushing down his shirt, trying to stop the red, heavily pigmented wine from staining the shirt that wasn't his, but rather Lestrade's. He had been allowed to borrow it, under the assumption it would be brought back unscathed, but that wasn't the case. Not now, at least, when things were going so well.

Sherlock didn't care for his own shirt. It was relatively old, and it was only Mycroft's anyway; that was an easy enough situation to get out of, as he had been doing it for years. He looked around their table for napkins, but found none, and so he said quickly, "I'll go get some tissue from the bathroom. One moment. I'm sorry-" his sentence remained unfinished, as he dashed away to the loo. It took next to no time for him to gather a roll, but as he made to head back to their table, he saw a sight he hadn't planned for:

Across the room, he witnessed Cassandra, a bunch of napkins in her hand, scrubbing down John's shirt. It started innocently enough, with her strokes remaining in the center of his chest, where the spilled wine was concentrated, but then gradually got lower. Sherlock had originally imagined everybody had turned around with the accident, but he was apparently wrong. Nobody seemed to have an idea what was happening, except for him, Cassie, and John. It felt oddly intimate, as he looked over at them, watching her sharp nails dab the tissue onto his lap, his groin. John, despite being on a case, was undeniably interested in her, and couldn't take his eyes off of her parted cherry lips, and Sherlock imagined him thinking of all sorts of things. Then, Sherlock began thinking of all sorts of things, and he had to stop himself because he was becoming angry, unreasonably so, and when he became angry he lost the filter on his mouth. He walked towards John, prepared to utter a sort of quip to make her leave, and only walked faster when he saw them actually conversing. She slipped something into John's pocket, and smiled at him seductively. She pushed out her chest, showing him where it was okay for him to look - preferred, even - but then Sherlock was upon them, and he stood beside John protectively.

"I've got it from here, thanks." Sherlock lifted the tissue roll and smiled fakely at her, then turned to John, turning him to face him with a finger firmly on his jawline, "Aren't you glad you married me!" He emphasised the verb, and the preceeding possessive pronoun, alerting the woman that it was time for her to take her leave. Still, she eyed up the pair of them, crossed her arms underneath her bosom, only further accentuating her well-endowed, chest, seemingly challenging their relationship, so Sherlock decided to take it one step further. With his internal alarms screaming inside his head, he leaned down to John, desperate to keep his eyes fixed on him and not the breasts of the woman beside them, and pressed a feverent kiss to his lips.

The kiss spoke volumes - words Sherlock couldn't even fathom speaking aloud. It uttered /please/, /love me/, and /look at me, not her/, amongst even more, embarassing things. He hoped it was just him hearing such things, but the way John reacted made him think otherwise. Still, like the good soldier he was, John took it, and even began to push back, dragging Sherlock closer to him, nearly making him topple over. Sherlock let himself rock momentarily before steadying himself on John's shoulders. It must have taken a minute, but eventually they had to surface to breathe, and so they pulled away, their eyes meeting briefly before Sherlock looked around, checking for the woman, but finding nothing but warm air in her wake. Sherlock smirked to himself, for numerous reasons, and took his seat once more across from John. They had convinced her; she had gone away.

There was a silent moment that passed, in which Sherlock felt immeasureably proud of himself, though he could not for the life of him explain why he did so, but then John said, "Sherlock," and everything was back to normal.  
"What? What is it?"

John slid a small card across the table. Reading it said, "Meet me outside tonight, 10pm, to join in on the fun," Sherlock pretty much instantly knew what it was. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, and cursed out his brother in his mind. This was a mistake, and he would be sure to let Mycroft know about it.  
  
\----

"A swinger, Mycroft," Sherlock stood in the aforementioned man's office, staring down at him with wide eyes, "She was looking for a new person to join her 4-person rendezvous."  
Mycroft stopped what he was doing, and looked up at his brother. "Yes."  
"You said she was a criminal mastermind."  
"And she isn't."  
"No, not quite." Sherlock replied, sarcastically.  
"Oh." Mycroft said simply, "How peculiar."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, keeping them trained on his brother. "You knew."  
Mycroft ignored his accusation, instead saying, "Don't worry about the Detective Inspector; I've got a new shirt on the way. He'll be more than sated."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock made to leave, tired of hearing his brother talk and talk, but never listen. As he breached the doorway, however, Sherlock heard him speak again, this time actually talking about something other than business, or himself.  
"Did you enjoy yourself?"

When Sherlock looked back at him, he found him smiling, lips still somewhat strained, but looking more geniune than Sherlock could remember him looking, ever. Still irritated, Sherlock ignored his question and left the office, hailing a cab once he was outside, but then pondering upon his brother's words once he had some peace to think to himself, because yes, he had rather enjoyed himself. It had been four days since the 'failed' mission, though Sherlock didn't count it as such since it was never going to work in the first place. Four days, and he hadn't even thought back to the events, and conclude that it was all around a very enjoyable night. Not because he was putting his life at danger, nor because he got to eat nice food and pay for none of it himself. It wasn't even because he got to wear a fancy suit and look suave, all done-up, but because John was there. John was present, and they could laugh and joke in public without fear of being called 'freak' by Donovan, or having Anderson make a snide comment directed towards them (him). He found he rather liked not using his full mental capacity, and he liked just being there, eating and having fun.

He felt bubbly on the way home, and he was glad John wasn't home when he got back, or else he might have done something insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
  
\----

Though it was over, there were still questions Sherlock deliberated over for weeks. For instance, the woman was not a villain, rather just somebody who enjoyed multiple partners. Fine. But why had Mycroft given him the case in the first place? He had been assured she was a danger, and that she needed to be detained. Mycroft, though Sherlock would never tell him he thought so, was a genius. He was at least on the same level of intelligence as him, which made it nearly impossible that he didn't know who she really was, nor that he simply was mistaken. He ran the entire British government, for God's sake, and Sherlock was supposed to believe he made a silly mistake such as that? No way.

On top of this, why had the woman gone for John in the first place? Sherlock was the one showing interest, after all. While he thought, Sherlock came to the simple conclusion that John must have had vibes that radiated from him. It made sense, because he liked women. When Sherlock looked at the woman's chest for a brief moment, he felt absolutely nothing. To him, it was just extra meat, and it didn't make him - any part of him - feel anything. On the other hand, John couldn't seem to draw his eyes away from them, except for when Sherlock made him. Then, that led him to another question: if the woman was so observant to notice John, while fake-married to a man, was attracted to women, why did she also not have an issue in believing he truly did enjoy men in the same way when Sherlock kissed him? Did John really act that well? Or maybe... no. Surely not. If John was bi, he was sure he would have been notified. They were flatmates and best friends, so how could he not have? Similarly, though, Sherlock didn't think he had ever overtly stated his sole attraction to men, so how could he not expect the same treatment back? Give and you shall receive, as it was, and Sherlock had not yet gave.

The weeks dragged on. Sherlock became more and more frustrated. He looked for clues in John that he could use to conclude once and for all that he was attracted to men. First, he looked into his dating history. Ever since he moved in to Baker Street with Sherlock, every long-term partner he had had was with a female. That wouldn't help. Secondly, he tried seeing John's opinions of celebrities, and whether he found them attractive or not. Much to his dismay, John didn't seem to like any of the men he put forward, and he purposefully chose the most masculine ones he found with a Google search. Then, after quirking John's suspicions, he resolved to never finding out, but this didn't last very long. Eventually, about a month and a half after the dud of a case Mycroft put them on to, they were sat in their usual armchairs, doing separate activities. John was reading the newspaper, and Sherlock was reading a novel. Out of nowhere, inspiration struck Sherlock, and he looked up from his book at the man seated across from him, and blurted out:  
"I'm gay."

John looked up at him, looked around his face for a moment, seeing he seemed to be telling the truth and it wasn't for some sort of experiement, then looked back down, readjusted his paper as it folded over, and said, "That's nice. I'm very happy for you, Sherlock."  
Sherlock was dumbfounded. That was it? That was all he had to say? Surely not. "Don't you get it, John? I'm gay."  
"Yes." John looked up at him, slightly concerned.  
"I like men! Males." Sherlock heard himself losing the plot, but couldn't put himself back on track - not now. "You see, I like the way men are. How they feel. I like how they're built - no extra bits I'm unused to. I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen. My mother knew instantly, of course, what with her deduction skills, but she never mentioned it - not till I was ready. Mycroft knew too, but it never fazed him. I don't think I ever even said the words to him, he just came to accept it as commonhold knowledge. My mother tried setting me up with one of her friend's sons who was gay too, but it didn't work out. Clearly." He gestured to the two of them, then winced, realising what it sounded like he was implying. He applied a mental strip of duct tape, and kept quiet. John furrowed his brow, looking lost.

"Yes, very good..." John said, speaking as though he was trying not to wake a vampire in slumber, "Sherlock, why are you telling me this?"  
Sherlock breathed and removed the tape so he could reply, "Just thought you should know, after all these years. What about you?"  
"What /about/ me?"  
This was it. No turning back. "Are you--"

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson came through their doorway, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits on it, stealing John's attention away from him. "Just thought you boys might want a drink and something to eat. You two have been working non-stop lately! Though I'm not your housekeeper, I thought I'd best at the very least keep you from starving." She looked at the two of them, then settled on John, who smiled at her and thanked her, setting his paper down and beginning a conversation with her about recent events.

Sherlock could have banged his head against a wall, he was so frustrated. He would need a word with Mrs Hudson about barging in, except he knew it wouldn't stop her. Even if it would, what would he say? 'Stop trying to be nice when I'm trying to get off with my flatmate'? For some reason, he didn't think that would work so well.

He kept quiet and drank his tea. This was a dire situation, which meant it called for dire measures.  
  
\----  
  
"Under no other circumstances would I be telling you this."

Mycroft smiled up at him, watching him wander aimlessly around the barren room, hands in a prayer-like formation as he did so. They were somewhere even Sherlock couldn't be certain of. All that he knew was he requested for absolute certainty that nobody would overhear, and so voilà, here they were. He had texted Mycroft while John was in the shower, telling him he needed to see him urgently - that it was a matter of life and death, and the latter result would be his own fault if he didn't at least attempt to help. Mycroft texted back, saying there was a car on its way, and not to worry. This showed a weaker side to him, one that Sherlock would gladly exploit. After all, it was only family. He let John know he was leaving and not to wait up for him, then clambered into the back of the black car outside of the flat and let Mycroft and his pawns do the rest.

"This isn't easy," Sherlock continued monologuing, finally feeling able to vent without fear of John overhearing, "I hope you know this is taking a great deal of myself to say."  
"Sherlock, not to nitpick," Mycroft interjected, speaking softly but firmly, "but you haven't actually /said/ anything yet, at least not of worth. I do hope this is worth my time."

Sherlock stopped and looked down at him, challenging him with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. He pushed the words from his throat:  
"I'm in love with John."  
And so it was done. There, he had finally said it. Now, he looked down at Mycroft, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

"Yes." Sherlock hated to admit he heard some part of himself in the word, and how it was delivered. Mycroft's unchanging tone made Sherlock feel something. Not anger, more like disappointment. Was he really so transparent?  
"Yes?"  
"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft put his hands down onto the table, keeping his fingers intertwined, "That's right - 'yes'. Have you really only just realised? I knew from the moment John moved in to Baker Street - before, even, but then again, early days..."  
He trailed off, so Sherlock siezed the opportunity to take over him. "No. I've known for ages." Sherlock randomly felt himself falling apart. Not unlike a car wreckage, he shook and blurted out, "Don't treat me like a child! You have to help me, Mycroft. Do you think I'd be here if it was anything but a last resort?"

His brother seemed bemused as he pondered upon his final sentence. Nodding along in agreement, Mycroft mulled over his response, but when it came it left Sherlock less than satisfied:  
"What can I do?"

It wasn't the fact Mycroft didn't know how to help that vexed him. It was the fact that he didn't know how Mycroft could help, which meant he had come to his final dead end. If the world's two greatest minds couldn't come to a reasonable conclusion between them, was there even one at all? It seemed less and less likely as the tortuous days dragged on.  
Now at a complete loss, Sherlock filled his words with his pent-up frustration, yelling, "Do something bloody fantastic! Work your magic! Do something - anything." At this point, even though he had uttered only ten words, Sherlock felt drained. "Please, Mycroft."

He was truly at the bottom of his pit, and what made it worse was that he had dug it himself. He remembered - always, but more frequently in recent months - the first case they had ever been on together. The serial killer cabbie - A Study in Pink, if he recalled correctly. As they waited for the murderer they had texted to arrive, they sat in Angelo's. Not unlike in the dream he had, they talked. Wise-cracks were made, and they smiled. They didn't know it then, but it was the first in a long time for both of them, and it was simply the beginning of such experiences. It wasn't this that bothered Sherlock, though. No, what bothered him most of all, what kept him up at night, was how he had responded when John asked him the perfect lead-up question: he had asked Sherlock if he had a boyfriend. If he could turn back time, Sherlock should like to ammend his answer, which at the time was mostly a result of a defence mechanism built up over years of isolation. If he could change it, he would have launched himself across the table and took John's perfect face into his hands and kissed his perfect lips, no words needed. He would have smooched him breathless, and only when they pulled back through fear of asphyxiation would he have said, 'no, not currently, but I should hope I will after that', and he and John would have lived happily ever after. Despite getting on each other's nerves, of course, but that was just a given. He drew himself back to reality and looked back at Mycroft, who had dropped his gaze to his desk absentmindedly, deep in thought. He inhaled, and looked up at his brother.

"I do have one proposal," Sherlock's ears perked up, "though I don't suppose you'll like it."  
"Anything, Mycroft, please." He felt idiotic begging, but there was no other way. "I'll do anything. Just make it stop."  
"You could just tell him."

Sherlock reeled backwards, both mentally and physically, the latter he only realised when he stumbled on a chair and nearly went flying onto his back. "No, no, no no." He chanted as though it was his mantra, "You don't understand. I can't do that. It'll never work."  
"Well, I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice had begun ringing in his ears, piercing his skull and infiltrating his brain even more than usual, "but there's simply no other way. You want it to stop, fine. Make it stop. Tell him the truth, Sherlock. One way or another, you have to tell him. Things can't continue as they are. You'll end up losing your mind."  
"I'd rather lose my mind than lose my friend."  
"That's your decision to make, brother, not mine."  
  
\----

Sherlock was in the morgue, inspecting a body for some form of insect bites of another. Genetically engineered bugs - who'd have thought it. Well, that one was easy, Sherlock, naturally. Still, it was taking longer than usual, because the holes made by the insects were smaller than anticipated. Go figures - genetically modified bugs with genetically modified stingers. Oh well, he concluded, it was the last step to solving the case, once and for all. He had come to the lab alone; John had offered to tag along, but Sherlock insisted he stay at home and rest. After all, he had been working long shifts recently, and Sherlock had realised just how negative of an effect the cases on top of that were. In reality, Sherlock could barely stand to be in the same room as John, let alone to interact with him longer than absolutely necessary. Oddly, it felt as though he knew nothing about him anymore, even though he could recite things about him, ranging from his life history to his search history, with less effort than that used in the blinking of an eye. He sighed, and put down his equipment. Oh, here it was again. The John-thought stampede. Fantastic.

He leaned back in his chair. With his mind racing with thoughts, images, clips of John in day-to-day life, it seemed almost perfect timing when Molly Hooper entered the lab and caught his eye.  
"Oh, hello, Sherlock!" She called cheerfully, smiling at him, "What are you doing here? Got another case?"

Without meaning to (really, if he was completely honest, his mind was bustling too much, making too much noise, that he didn't even hear her properly), he blanked her questions, instead leaning towards her and gesturing her to come over to him. Then, he asked, "Molly, as an experienced, intellectual individual," he knew flattery worked. He didn't like using her in such a way, but he had come so low as to talk to Mycroft, so nothing was beyond comprehension now, "I trust you've had your fair share of 'crushes' over the years. Am I correct?"  
Molly's cheeks went pinker, but she nodded.  
"How does one... deal with them?" He looked down as he posed his question, but met her eye once again soon after he finished. He tried to use his gaze to elicit a quick reply.  
Molly's mouth opened, as it did when she was processing information spouted out at her. He could practically see the cogs in her head turning, before she said, "I see. Well, I find it's always best to be direct about it. Just ask them, no games played."  
Sherlock couldn't fight back the strangled, gutteral noise that erupted from his throat. "Yes, but what if it's too late for that? What if the games have already been played, but no squares have been moved? What then?"  
Her mouth opened again, soon followed by a noticeably quieter, "I usually give up."

Sherlock buried his face in his hands, never feeling worse in his life, and felt an overwhelming urge to cry. Still, she continued:  
"But you shouldn't." She said, stronger, more sure this time, "You're not me. You're Sherlock Holmes. The great detective."  
He removed his hands and looked at her, not playing anything now, and he knew his features must have had desperation splattered all over them. "And what should Sherlock Holmes, the great detective do?"  
She smiled coyly at him, and for a brief moment he thought she might think he was insinuating something between them, but her next words proved that theory false. "He'd go and ask John Watson out."

He couldn't suppress a smile. Usually, he hated being seen as so obviously sentimental, but now it had seemed to work out to his advantage. However, the feelings flooded back once more as he digested what she had said. "But... Molly."  
"Hm?"  
He sighed audibly, "I'm scared." He sounded like an overgrown baby. Her tone remained unwaveringly kind, nonetheless.  
"I know." She understood, he could tell. She really understood. "But you have to. And you might even be pleasantly surprised. Who knows?"

Sherlock, forgetting about his case, picked up his jacket and headed straight for the door. He opened it, and just as he was about to head out and let it fall shut behind him, he heard Molly's sweet, sing-song tone from behind him speak once more.  
"Sherlock?"  
He looked back at her. "Yes?"  
"Be gentle." She offered a crooked smile, and nodded.

He understood. Of course, she was right. Bless the saint Molly Hooper, she was right.  
  
\----  
  
Spanning the entire cab ride back to 221B, Sherlock knew he should have been running through his head what he would say. He needed it mapped out, or he would forget it, and that was just a fact. However, instead of doing the smart thing and rehearsing his lines, Sherlock spent the time daydreaming. Similarly to in the lab, he thought of John in daily tasks. Brushing his teeth, making breakfast, showering, Except now, something was different. Now, every time he thought of something menial being done by the man, he was there with him. When John brushed his teeth, he stood beside him in the mirror, cleaning his own set, but kept his eyes trained onto the shorter man. He looked at his eyes, how they glistened in the artificial light of the bathroom, which was only necessary before the sun rose. He thought of John at the stove, a pan on the hob, cracking an egg and beginning to cook it. Then, he slipped in, sleep still in his eyes, though still happy for his dreams were in his waking life. They were still there, fussing about, scraping burnt egg off of the sides of the ancient pans that they forgot to grease each and every time they used them. Sherlock dozily made his way over and slipped his arms around John's waist, pulling him close. Without warning, he was in the bathroom, watching running water sliding off of John's naked body. The steamed up shower meant he couldn't see very much for the most part, but that didn't matter for very long as he undressed himself and slid open the door, climbing inside, joining John in the shower. Sherlock realised that he wanted John, in absolutely every sense of the word. It didn't matter if John only wanted to hold hands and nothing more, as it didn't matter if he wanted to tie Sherlock up and leave him on the edge of orgasm for days on end. All of it was good - all of it was the same, because it was all John, and he loved John. Loved, love, love.

He paid the cabbie what he thought was the exact change but could have been over - it wasn't relevant. He jumped from his seat, bounding to get to the door, where he unlocked it and headed straight for their shared flat on the second floor. He couldn't get up the stairs fast enough, even as he skipped two, even three at a time to reach the top. Finally there, Sherlock tried the doorhandle, which was wide open (thankfully, and stupidly). It was a bold, dangerous move, but Sherlock praised whoever had made that decision, because he couldn't imagine having to fumble with his keys to unlock the door. It would have taken too long, and it would have meant that, once he was inside, he might not have found John as he did. Well, rather didn't at first, but that was quickly ammended as he heard the taps in the bathroom shut off, and he hurried to the door, pacing unintentionally as he waited for John to come out of the bathroom. The situation reminded him an awful lot of that on Christmas, but this time he knew what he wanted. He knew what was going to happen, and there was no excusing it now. No mistletoe, and no alibi formulating in Sherlock's mind, nor brewing on his lips. Now, unlike his other chances, was it.

Without announcement, the door to the bathroom opened, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at John in the face. Seeing it was just his flatmate, John smiled at him, and spoke.  
"Oh, Sherlock, I didn't know you were coming back this early." He turned around to shut the door behind him, keeping his habit of making the flat look as presentable as possible to any potential visitors - friends, family, and clients alike. In short, it meant they could shove rubbish into any room they liked, as long as the doors to said rooms remained closed at all times. Once the door was closed securely behind him, John turned back around, to an event he wasn't expecting in the least.

In one quick motion, and with no words (for he found none), Sherlock had John's face cupped gently in his hands, and had his back planted firmly against the door. The noise that came from John as he did so was slightly off-putting, though he, with an unbiased frame of mind, saw it could have been one of disagreeance, or of pleasant surprise. In any case, it was one or the other, he just didn't know which one yet.

But then he did. About ten seconds of one-sided pursed lip-action went by, but then a discouraged Sherlock felt John's arms wrap around his back and land on the base of his spine. He tugged hard on his relatively stiff frame, bringing every inch of them - their groins included! - closer together. Sherlock, against his will, smirked, feeling a chuckle at the back of his throat, which in turn broke their suddenly rather heated kiss. Once John had begun to kiss back, everything changed: what was originally a soft, 'I love you; please don't tear my heart in two' kiss morphed into a passionate, 'my bedroom, your bedroom, or the kitchen table, now' sort of kiss. Sherlock had never loved anything more. Well, maybe one thing.

With their new space (albeit no more than two inches, which was mostly occupied by hot, tension-filled air, John found his voice:  
"Sherlock," he whispered, looking up at the man in question, "please, please don't tell me that was for a case. I don't think I could take it."  
Sherlock shook his head vigourously - perhaps too much so, but it got the point across. "No, John. Not for a case. That, never for a case."  
"Then why?"

Sherlock's mouth ran dry. A drought had set in on his tongue, which left him unable to say the three words he wanted to say more than anything else in the world. He acted quickly, opting for another tactic. His mind cast him back to the night, so long ago. They were sat at Angelo's, with a candle between them, setting the romantic mood. He and John had switched places. John looked out of the window, while Sherlock looked at John.  
"Have you got a girlfriend?"  
John looked a little puzzled, but shook his head and replied, "no," in a heavy voice.  
"Have you got a boyfriend?"  
John shook his head once more, this time looking around Sherlock's face analytically, not speaking again/  
"Good."

Sherlock darted forward, his mouth once more claiming John's, his kiss filled with more love and admiration than he ever thought he had the capacity to hold in his entire body, let alone in his heart alone. John understood. He got why Sherlock had asked it, and he knew. And they were still there, lips embracing, hearts intertwining. John had not pushed him away in disgust. In fact, he had pulled him closer in lust. It was even better than in his dreams.

Sherlock felt the heat between them, and without trying he could feel the routine pumping of his heart. It was quick, but not lethally quick. It showed him John was fully involved, not just playing a little game, trying to please him, nor anybody else but himself, and Sherlock loved it. He loved it more than anything he had ever uncovered in the entire world.

Well, maybe except for one thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Longest thing I've written (as a one-shot); a 'feather in my cap', if you will! Wishing everything reads okay.  
> Hope you enjoyed!


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